chapter 1

My name's Amy. You might remember me for my brief term as the mascot for the Anderson Eagles, affectionately named Baldy. I also sit behind you in Math class. You've probably picked up my pencils a million times, but I keep dropping them anyway because my hands are just so darn clumsy, and you're such a gentleman to assist a poor girl like me and pick up my pencils a million times more.

This probably won't mean a lot to you, because you have a girlfriend, who looks like Shay Mitchell and has an impressive collection of high heels, but I need to get it out eventually: I love you. I really do. Italicize it, write it in bold, translate it into another language, repeat it in your head over and over again - I love you. You are the Brad to my Angelina, the rainbow to my sunshower, the pretzel to my chocolate. I wish we could be more "Still Into You" by Paramore and less "You Belong to Me" by Taylor Swift. I fancy the dramatic, honey-blond curl that rests on your forehead and frames your face, and the polished minimalism of your clothes; I even love that navy button-up that your girlfriend once told you she hated. The way you hold the door open for anxious parents handling their children, the perfect shapes of your uneven eyes, the sheer joy of your bright smile - you excite me, Connor. You might not think of yourself as anything special, but Hollywood actors just don't cut it for me, because they're famous and way older. Plus, it's nice to know a boy who doesn't wear his jeans all the way to his knees and listen to disrespectful rap music, who also assumes that he's some kind of expert on dating girls. If I can't trust a guy with his pant size, how can I trust him with our relationship?

Pardon me, for I digress. If you throw out this letter before finishing the first paragraph, I don't blame you - I'm not as beautiful or exciting as your girlfriend. I wear bright ankle bracelets, prefer my hair short because long hair takes too long to wash in the morning, and if I can be barefoot, I will be barefoot. I wish I could tell you that I'm not like other girls, but I really am. I'm overdramatic and my moods are more intense than rollercoasters. I tell my friends that I care more about a guy's personality than his looks, but honestly, I care way, way more about looks than I should. I wear a lot of makeup, not because I don't want to scare little children with my acne and dark circles, but because pink lipstick can do things that motivational quotes on Post-It Notes can't. I'm weirder than girls who are attractive to guys, but I'm too normal to be anything special.

I might laugh about this letter someday. I might write off the emotions I feel for you now as irrational teenage feelings, and I could add how I used 'love' a lot, even though 'love' is a strong word. But for right now, I really do love you. And, as hopeless as it sounds, I still imagine the day that you'll love me back. Will you realize it late at night, when you can't sleep for some reason? Will you realize it in the cafeteria, when the meat is more mysterious than meatloaf? Will there be a gleam in your eye? A spring in your step? Will you quietly mention it in your head, or will you scream "I LOVE AMY SHERIDAN!" out loud? Oh, the possibilites!

If you've managed to finish this letter, you've made my day more than you normally do. You can go ahead and carry on with your wonderful life as a striker on the Varsity soccer team who gets along with even the most sour of grapes and has good grades and a drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend. Just know that I really, really love you.